


we pick ourselves undone

by rikacain



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 10:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14306802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: "Around a year now, isn't it?" Dagon is saying. "This isn't a social call, Crowley. We're coming for you."The mafia scene in London, England is run by two groups: Eden and the Nine Circles. So when Aziraphale decides to break off and create his own faction, Crowley has absolutely no reason to join him.But you know the answer to this: he does.





	we pick ourselves undone

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in my fic folder for three years. It was supposed to be the first part of my Big Bang submission, but I ran out of steam, as always. At this point I thought, damn it's sure a waste of (insert interval where I put this into a word counting website) seven thousand words that I wrote and no one read, so might as well post it up and who knows. One day I might pick the pen (or keyboard) back up and write again.
> 
> I used to like writing. Now it feels like pulling a tooth, and I have no idea how to get back in the game.
> 
> This fic idea came about from... a debate motion, where my debate captain brilliantly compared organised religion with mafias. I was mindblown that day, would do it again.
> 
> Title from Flaws by Bastille, legit took one hour to pick a title

It was raining.

The heavy droplets plummeted onto any structure it could find, drumming an arrhythmic beat against the concrete pavements and tarmac roads. Water cascaded in sheets off the roofs, drenching anything and anyone unfortunate enough to be left out in the open. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Aziraphale (last name long forgotten and removed) sat inside a pub, nursing a glass of scotch and staring out of a window distorted by the rivulets of liquid streaming furiously downwards. It could be said that his countenance was speculative; perhaps he was pondering on the mysteries of life, as some were wont to do when faced with a heavy downpour and a bottle of scotch. Humanity could get ever so maudlin over things they did not understand.

But the statements prior were not wholly true - for Aziraphale was a man who left mysteries mysterious, and when the mysteries unravelled, he took it all in stride. Had he arrived an hour ago, he would have been looking out at a plume of thick black smoke and a great blaze of fire where a warehouse had once stood; now it was burnt to ashes, and only the charred foundations remained. That warehouse had been his responsibility; someone had set it on fire and the rain had put the fire out, washing all traces away.

_Far too late_ , he thought to himself with a sense of cool detachment. Whatever stock, drugs, or counterfeit goods that the Father had put there was lost. It was millions, even billions of pounds that they were looking at here - all burnt to cinders.

Even more rankling was the fact that it was far from a careless accident; it was their own pride that had caused this disaster. It was four bosses and many more men of their men against a singularly harmless-looking infiltrator, and it was only negligence that could have permitted the infiltrator to wreak so much havoc in a place entirely of Eden. He couldn't imagine what would happen if Father knew. When he knew.

Aziraphale had been a part of Eden for six years now. Perhaps this was as far as he would ever go.

Someone slid into the seat beside him, and he turned to dismiss them. After a quick glance, however, he seemed to decide against it.

"Fancy seeing you here," the man said casually.

His eyes were blocked by a pair of sunglasses a tad too large for his face, and his hair and clothes were entirely drenched. In one hand he held a glass of red wine; the other he rested on the chair. Somewhere upon him he surely concealed a weapon.

Aziraphale recognised him. The infiltrator grinned, his smile cocky and sure.

Aziraphale's right hand went reflexively to his gun. His fingers clasped around the handle, ready to pull it out and blow the man's brains out - but honestly, Gabriel was going to blow his brains out and this bastard might do a quicker job than he did. His fingers slackened.

"Here to tie up a loose end, then," he asked, going back to his drink.

To his surprise, the man shrugged.

"No," the infiltrator said. "Job's over - Dagon didn't say anything about needing to kill anyone." He shifted, and Aziraphale recognized the bravado for the mask it was - the man was uncomfortable and afraid.

"If anything, I thought you'd kill me. Weren't you in charge of the place?"

"Me and three others," Aziraphale replied coolly.

He had always thought that the Nine Circles lot liked to pick fights, not avoid them. Then again, this wasn't exactly avoiding either.

"Besides, you burnt the place down and we're all going to take the fall - so why bother?"

If anything, the man looked slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to set the place on fire," he confessed, a slight lisp elongating the word ‘set’. "I just wanted a fag without, you know, your lot coming after me - so I hid out at the back. I guess I didn't put it out well enough."

_His downfall was barely competent_ , Aziraphale thought uncharitably. Though it could not be denied that the other man was young - perhaps it was inexperience rather than pure idiocy.

"So why come here," he asked, out of politeness than curiosity.

"Have you seen the weather?" The other man gestured at the window as if it had done something particularly offensive. "It's pissing cats and dogs out there. I'm not going to die of a bloody cold."

_Better that someone blows my brain out_ seemed to be the underlying notion. He took a sip of his scotch, still regarding his drinking companion with well deserved wariness.  He had no doubt that the man was extending him the same courtesy.

"Aziraphale." He finally said.

"Bless you."

"No, that's my name. Aziraphale."

The man blinked at him.

"Crowley," he offered.

"Crowley," Aziraphale nodded, and said nothing more. They would probably forget each other within a week, considering that Aziraphale was as good as dead.

It would be long before the storm dissipated. Until then, he'd drink his fears away.

* * *

_Five years later_

See: in Soho, a bookshop.

It isn't a particularly remarkable bookshop. Like all bookshops, it is in possession of a truly enormous amount of books, and far too little shelf space to place them on. The floor is practically impassable, a labyrinth of narrow winding paths marked merely by the absence of books. Even navigating these, one has to be wary of death at the hand of an avalanche of heavy tomes. With all its hazards, the bookshop can be described as either a bookworm's wet dream or an insurance agent's nightmare - if its owner ever did decide to apply for an insurance package, that is.

Look again: in Soho, a bookshop.

A sign hangs upon the front door. 'Closed', it says, and has said for a very long time. No one enters and no one leaves, no books are sold and no profit is made. _It's a miracle by itself that the bookshop still runs_ , fellow shop owners whisper enviously as they pull down their own signs to make way for the men in sharply pressed suits, the harsh power of money behind them, the men who smile coldly and promise that the space will be used for some building that would better the community. A new project, a new lifestyle, and all that.

The back door sees more traffic than its anterior counterpart - every few weeks, a nondescript grey van would drive by and deliver a stack of brown cardboard boxes that presumably held new stocks of books. Occasionally the delivery man would also take out his trash, unceremoniously stuffing the bin bag into a nearby garbage chute, before driving off to god knows elsewhere. No one has ever bothered to talk to him.

No one has ever bothered to wonder whether those books were actually books. No one has ever noticed that sometimes, the bin bag moves as the delivery man hoists it over his shoulder, and as it slides into the chute.

Look closely.

(In Soho, not a bookshop.)

* * *

"Hello," Aziraphale says pleasantly to the bin bag.

Crowley leans against the wall, careful to not crease his suit. He watches through his newest pair of sunglasses as the man struggles his way out of the bin bag which rustles enthusiastically as it opposes the escape. Aziraphale waits patiently - _politely_ , he'll insist, _it's only polite_ \- as the man on the floor regains his bearings, manages to jerk himself out of his prison, and shoves himself up against the concrete wall. It's a display of power here - Aziraphale looking harmless asa well-loved primary school teacher sitting on the only chair and the man cowering in a corner of the room, barely aware of where he is but knowing enough to recognise someone dangerous when he sees them.

"Mr. Deyton." Aziraphale says, almost gently.

It is the tone of voice one would use with a scared or injured animal, for fear that any loud and sudden movement would frighten it any further. Of course, it doesn't work when Crowley is standing just off to the side, his hand holding loosely but visibly onto a handgun. "Richard Deyton? I do hope they delivered us the right man. I'm sorry, sir, are you Mr. Deyton?"

Crowley snorts. The man is staring wildly at both of them, probably trying to size up who he could take on. If he's smart, he'll realise that the answer is neither.

"Don't bother,” Crowley says. “We're kidnappers. Kidnappers aren't polite.” Aziraphale shoots him a reproachful look, and Crowley continues. "It's him - you know she doesn't make mistakes."

"I just wanted an affirmation," Aziraphale says, but Crowley knows that he has made his point when the man turns his attention back onto Deyton. "Right - I'm sure you're extremely confused - but we only want to talk to you about a minor," and here he pauses, seemingly searching for the right term, "inconvenience our store is having, Mr. Deyton. Recently, your company has made rather aggressive overtures towards buying out this space. Your agents are extremely persistent, if you must know - they made all kinds of herculean efforts to get into contact with me. They tried to persuade me, but really, I can't part with this shop. It's too dear to my heart. You do understand?"

Deyton looks like he doesn't, but Crowley isn't too bothered. Aziraphale will make it clear soon enough.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale goes right on talking.

"Of course, I have been hearing about this new venture of yours - a brand new shopping street, that sounds absolutely lovely, what with more stores selling expensive clothing that hardly anybody would be able to buy,” all said with eager honesty and no trace of sarcasm, "except that surely that shopping street could be realised elsewhere? Perhaps some other district? The West End?"

This suggestion seems to prompt Deyton into some action, considering how violently he splutters. "The West End is already saturated - we can't just stop now! We already invested millions into this venture, bought off half the stores - "

"Well frankly, my dear man," Aziraphale says calmly, interrupting Deyton who had the sense to shut his gob immediately, though that might be more of Crowley cocking his gun. "I don't care in which street you do it as long as you don't do it in mine. You and your company may believe that you can buy the whole street off - I'm afraid that's not true. You will order your team to find a more worthwhile place to conduct your worthless business - and if you do not, there will be consequences."

"Consequences," Deyton repeats incredulously.

"Yes," Aziraphale nods gravely. "Like this."

Right on cue, Crowley aims the gun above Deyton's head and pulls the trigger. The bullet embeds itself centimeters above the man’s head. Deyton screams.

"I missed," Crowley states, if only for the effect. Aziraphale glances at him, but he can see that he's fighting back a smile.

"We won't kill you," Aziraphale assures Deyton, still looking at Crowley as if he hasdone something particularly amusing. "But the next agent to contact us will find himself in a small but deadly accident."

A small smile curls on the side of his mouth, wasted on Deyton who is too occupied with his fear to see it. "And if they persist, we will go after your family. You have very lovely children, Mr. Deyton. Louise and Ronald?"

Deyton lets out a strangled sound. Aziraphale smiles, as bright and as terrible as the sun. "I'm glad we understand each other," he says. "Don't contact us again. We will contact you."

* * *

"That was fun," Crowley says after knocking the man out none too gently with a pistol butt to the head.

"Your definition of fun is quite broad, my dear," Aziraphale says as he rises from the chair. "That was work, nothing more."

"Exactly," Crowley agrees, following Aziraphale out of the room and motioning for Francis to clean up. Francis would probably put Deyton back in the bin bag and deposit him back at his house. "You did most of the talking; all I did was point and shoot. I could get used to this."

"I'm sure you won't," Aziraphale says confidently. "You don't like being the muscle that much."

They climb up the narrow flight of metal stairs, emerging into the back of the bookshop. Crowley frowns down at the floor, thick with dust. Sometimes Aziraphale does let the facade go too far.

"Being the muscle is fun," he insists, if only to be contrary. What Aziraphale said is true, even if his threats are delivered very differently. He's too impatient to be the nice part of the good cop, bad cop routine. "Wait. How is he going to know which shop not to buy out? He doesn't know which shop is ours."

Aziraphale laughs. It's a very nice laugh, Crowley notes absent-mindedly, before stopping that particular train of thought. He knows better; he promised himself that much.

"Exactly. He can't risk buying any more of the street because the next store he tries to buy might be ours. I daresay he'll find another street on which to realise his dreams - or, seeing how he essentially wasted so much money, he’ll get fired instead, and we'll give a warm welcome to the next."

Aziraphale hums, seemingly in appreciation of his own ingenuity. "How is our shipment?"

"Five batches of crack in, distributing tomorrow. We've got marijuana, but our distributor got caught last week so we're changing to a new guy, hopefully smarter. I'll be meeting him later." After the Garden job they try to keep the inventory levels as empty as possible - Aziraphale doesn't feel safe otherwise. "We've got a few counterfeits on their way in - Anathema's interested in buying one."

"Shall we give her one? It's almost her birthday," Aziraphale suggests genially.

"Why not," Crowley says, taking it in his stride, even if Anathema's birthday is a good month away. It'll make her less likely to work for the other organizations at any rate. Aziraphale opens the door to his office, fumbling slightly with the key, and goes straight to his desk and an ancient fossil of a computer, which Crowley visibly grimaces at.

There isn't much else he can do other than grimace. Aziraphale insists that the only operating system he is able to understand is the one he already has.

"About our distributor," the older man says suddenly, stabbing at the keyboard with his fingers like a pigeon pecking at a piece of bread stuck between two cobblestones. "Did someone tip the Yard off?"

“Could be. Otherwise, he's an unlucky idiot," Crowley says bluntly. "I'll check it up. See if it's any of our old friends." His left hand curls around his right wrist; he knows Aziraphale sees it.

"Do you miss them?" Aziraphale asks perfunctorily, keeping his eyes on the system booting up ever so slowly.

Crowley recognizes a loaded question when he hears one. He looks at Aziraphale, eyes dark through his tinted sunglasses. "Not in a thousand years."

* * *

Their new distributor is a slightly scrawny boy called Newton "call-me-Newt" Pulsifier. It makes Kai, the previous runner, a slight bit more preferable - but he just had to go and get himself caught.

Crowley doubts the boy has broken any rules before. On the other hand, he was probably never a teacher's pet, either. Newton Pulsifier looks depressingly average - if there is a scale of good looks where a destroyed face was the lowest bar and Adonis was the highest, the boy would be exactly on the middle bar. Exactly.

The trade-off (oh hush, Crowley does like his classics) takes place in a dingy little restaurant owned by one Madame Tracy, dimly lit and shoddily cleaned. Tracy has always been better at laundering than cooking, at any rate. The boy had arrived early, and Crowley had spent a few good minutes searching for the right table that hopefully had no ratty doilies on it before he had realized that the dorky-looking boy with the glasses was their new runner.

"How old are you," Crowley squints at him through his sunglasses.

"Twenty-two."

He stares. The guy didn't look a day above twenty. "No, really. How old are you."

"Twenty-two," Pulsifier repeats, irritation bleeding through his tone. He must have gotten carded a lot. Crowley sympathises. Then again, Pulsifier didn't look like he ever went to a bar.

Also, it was his (self-imposed) job to make life hard for the new recruits, because he can.

"Have you ever smoked?" He asks, waving the bag of dried leaves at him. The plastic wrap and crumpled leaves rustle invitingly to any stoners nearby. _Come to me_ , it crinkles. _I'll make you as high as a kite._

"No. I mean, yes. Um. No."

An expression of distress settles over Pulsifier's face, and again Crowley finds himself doubting the man's age.

"No."

"No," Crowley stifles a sigh. "Look, do you need money or something? Trouble at home?"

"What?" Pulsifier looks extremely confused, or perhaps he is rather good at pretending to be extremely confused. Maybe it's a default emotion. "What - no. No. Excuse me, what?"

He takes pity on the boy.

"You don't actually want to be involved in this sort of business. I am, but you don't look like the type to want to do this." Pulsifier seems speechless. Crowley shrugs. "Go back to school, get a degree, do something with your life. Or don't."

Not that anyone ever told Crowley that. His first year with one of the two main British crime rings had been rife with terror over someone finding out that he wasn’t who he said he was. It had only been a small mix-up during the initiation, but once you were involved with the Nine Circles, you couldn’t just disappear unless you were discorporated. Crowley didn’t want to be discorporated. He still doesn’t.

"I'm twenty-two," Pulsifier insists, nonplussed.

"You're not fooling anyone," Crowley tells him shortly.

The boy bristles.

"Do I need to show you my driving license," he demands. "I graduated and I drive a bloody car, for God's sake. Are you going to sell me the weed or not?"

The kid isn't going to change his mind, anyone can see that. Crowley shoves the packet he was waving about at him. While Pulsifier fumbles the catch, he raps on the cardboard boxes he brought along with him. "That's ten kilograms in total. Pay up half, and you better cough up the other half the next time I see you." He pauses - oh, yeah. "You know Kai, right? Were the police tipped off about him?"

"What?" Pulsifier says, nervous again. Good grief, the kid needs to get a better grip on his nerves. "I don't think so. Um. Maybe?"

Crowley sighs, very audibly this time. _Greenhorns_ , he thinks. The minimum requirement for the distributor is to not be a stoner. He shouldn’t have even bothered.  "Never mind."

He gets up after Pulsifier shoves a bundle of dirty notes into his hand and he thinks about his next destination. He could ask around the regular customers (he vaguely knows where they are), but if the Yard happens to be staking out the hot spots, it's more risk than its worth. No, he needs a more covert way of finding out whether Eden or Nine Circles was involved...

Ah. Time to pay a visit to Anathema.

Madame Tracy winks at him as he leaves. He scowls back. Can't have Pulsifier thinking he's soft for old ladies. He isn't.

In the Bentley, he cranks the volume as high as it can go. _The show must go on_ , Freddie sings, and Crowley mouths along, spinning his car into another lane and detouring towards the bookshop. Maybe Anathema would appreciate Coach.

* * *

"I hate Coach," Anathema greets him generously as she opens the door.

"Hello to you too," Crowley says, stepping through. "How's business?"

"You mean my official one, or my unofficial one," she returns, dry as a desert. Today was not a court day, he notes - casual wear with a garishly bright yellow tee and comfortable jeans wouldnot look well on a defense lawyer. "Official one is lagging quite a fair bit - all the big customers always want to use the Magic Circle. Not that they're bad, but their rates are bloody expensive."

"And yours are better," Crowley supplements, amused.

Not that it isn't true - Anathema is brilliant when the situation calls for it. She gets their little operation out of numerous scrapes and their operatives out of jail - and an infinitely better investment than a four thousand pounds per hour clean-cut lawyer. She also does hacking on the side, and by extension information gathering. If he had to describe her, it would be as a detective on the wrong side.

Suits them fine. It is hard to believe that they met when he ran her and her bike over with his Bentley and that she threatened to sue his sunglasses off his body unless he compensated her in some way. 

"I'm better," she agrees. "Inofficial is doing great, thanks to you lot. So, why the house call?"

They emerge into a spacious room where a large TV screen hangs on one wall and a keyboard and mouse sit before it on a table, offerings to a virtual god. Other than that, the room could be considered haphazardly decorated with colorful braided rugs and pillows on soft couches that clash terribly with one another. He sinks into a red one, reaching over to set the offending handbag onto a nearby table.

"I think I’ll retire," Crowley leans forward, adopting a mock-serious tone. "This business is too harsh on my ailing body. Maybe I should do delivery instead."

Anathema stares at him flatly. "You're twenty-four."

"Fine, maybe not. I need a favour."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Aziraphale knows,” Crowley assures her. “This isn't _that_ kind of favour."

Not that he would ever ask for that kind of favour, whatever it is. He has a sinking suspicion that Anathema thinks that kind involves feelings. Crowley can't afford to do feelings.

"That's the reason for the bag then,” she hypothesizes.

"No, the bag's a gift. Happy early birthday."

The kettle starts to whistle; she gets up and returns with two cups of piping hot tea.

"Honestly, I prefer coffee."

"That's blasphemy," she says, smiling into her own cup. "Anyway. What favour is this?"

"I need you to check the police database, whether there was a tip-off on last week's arrest. One of our distributors got caught - name's Li Kai, last name L-I,  ran marijuana. We want to know whether it was Nine Circles or Eden, or just pure stupidity."

He's not sure which option is preferable, with Pulsifier in the equation.

“Any prior record?” She takes out her phone and begins to tap at the screen, probably bringing up the police database in that little conduit of information.

Crowley frowns.

"I don't think so. Never caught him boasting about any stints in the jail." Not that there was anything to look at in there - he should know, he has been in one if very briefly.

"That'll make it harder then," she muses. "Where was he picked up?"

“Hyde Park.”

Twenty-five kilograms of marijuana lost and going straight into Eden’s pocket, courtesy of their police rats. Aziraphale tells him as much - Eden hasn’t taken the moral highway completely; sometimes, the old fashioned way of selling face-to-face instead of through conference calls and bank accounts is just as lucrative. Then again, Crowley doesn’t need to be told that Eden is no better than the Nine Circles, even if they pretend to be.

“Usual haunts for the regular,” he says. “Guess there won’t be any more business there."

Anathema hums noncommittally. “And when would you like this by?”

“Within the next two days," he says. No point overworking her when she has Li Kai and eight other idiots to defend in court now, even if he’s very confident that she could get the relevant information complete with phone transcripts by the next day.

"Just message me or Aziraphale, or both. Both is good."

She pours herself more tea with one hand, not commenting on Crowley's untouched cup. "Both it is then. I suppose this goes under the usual rate?"

"The usual rate," he affirms. The Coach handbag sits unassuming on the table. He glances at it. "You said you hate Coach."

She looks up and he smiles, mamba-like.

"Get the information quick enough and I'll kip you a better bag. Balenciaga?"

Her lips twitch slightly, and he has her. "That sounds like a deal."

“It certainly is one," he replies. “While you're at it, could you check up on a Newton Pulsifier?"

Anathema frowns. "Newton Pulsifier?"

"Know him?" Crowley asks, keeping a careful eye on her. If the kid turns out to be really  underage, he'll have to find a new runner. Underage labour can get stupid in their line of business. "He's our new distributor."

"No," she tells him, shrugging.

She doesn't seem to be lying, as far as he can tell. Then again, lawyers can never be trusted.

"Says he's twenty-two,” Crowley adds. “I don't believe him, though."

"Hm. I'll check him up for you.” She tilts her head, considering. “What’s he done?"

“Nothing, there's just something off about him. He looks far too young." He doesn't have the time or the intention to subject Anathema to an interrogation, so he gets up. "You know how to contact me."

"That I do," she says. A frown is still creasing her brow, but Crowley is short on time. He has an appointment to keep, after all."Ta, Crowley. Say hi to Aziraphale for me."

* * *

He heads down towards Whitehall, off to do his own brand of threatening. Aziraphale may be able to handle general threats, but Crowley finds that there is a certain finesse in manipulating politicians. It isn't as if they are harder to intimidate - to be completely frank, the prospect of power and money in a thick juicy carrot dangled in front of them can send them sprinting even without the stick of the whole routine. The fun lies in finding where they were in the political arena and just what weaknesses can knock them off their horses... and offering to hide those weaknesses for a hefty sum.

Nine Circles may have been happy to run drug rings and wage gang wars, but Crowley likes looking classy and large pay-offs. They might have mocked politicians, but there was so much potential to be had. So much.

He leaves his car parked at an appropriate spot, making the rest of his way on foot. Blending in is easy with his black suit - the sharply dressed men and women accept him into their currents by not accepting him at all, each and every one of them on their own personal path to their next appointment. The only reason anyone would pick him out of a crowd would be to say what a handsome fucker he was.

He checks his watch -  Elizabeth Perkins would be wrapping up her meeting in half an hour's time. He could corner her for an 'interview', show her some evidence of embezzlement (from a charity, tsk tsk) which Anathema had expertly dug up, allude to her more recent activities and what exactly she had at risk and she'll be in their pockets whether she likes it or not. Crowley only has to change certain parts of the script to suit her in particular.

Until then, he will have to wait. He ducks into a nearby cafe, giving its occupants a cursory glance before ordering coffee, settling down at a secluded table, and dialing Aziraphale. The prerecorded message cheerfully tells him that he would regret it if he called again - especially if he was a telesales operator. Crowley frowns, trying to recall any appointment that the man could have and coming up short. It was barely three: Aziraphale should be taking his tea by now.

(Sometimes, Crowley can kick himself for all the ways he absorbs information on Aziraphale like a sponge: when he takes his tea, how he takes it, and the brand of biscuits he would have it with. He pretends not to know, but you can't just not know what you know. Life is cruel that way.)

He calls again, and the message repeats. Crowley is not so lovesick as to listen to Aziraphale's voice repeatedly after a few hours, so he hangs up almost immediately as the warning reaches the part where calling again would lead to consequences. The coffee arrives, and he drinks it distractedly as he mentally reviews Aziraphale's schedule. There was that meeting with that broker, and maybe he was looking into the trafficking ring again. Aziraphale didn't have to report to him his every action, he chastises himself.

He'll call again later, Crowley decides. He finishes his coffee, pays the bill and leaves. Business first, because they were all professionals - even if his feelings are not.

* * *

A relatively smooth ‘interview' and a drive to Mayfair later, Crowley is still putting off the phone call. He should give Aziraphale more time, he reasons to himself as he heads up to his flat. Maybe it was a long meeting. Or maybe he's quite busy. Aziraphale will call him back.

Until then, he has some free time to water his plants.

The flat is tastefully decorated with stylish minimalism in mind - fitting, considering how he spends increasingly less time in it every month. There are black and white and occasionally red pieces of furniture, a good number of them being made out of smooth plastic (barring the  kitchen counter, the couch and the bed).

He makes a beeline straight for the wide balcony where a myriad of flourishing plants awaits. A mister sits on a transparent stool next to a gleaming pair of sharp pruning shears.  He picks up both .

The plants rustle in the sudden breeze, perhaps in fear of what is to come.

Crowley smiles nastily as he sweeps a critical eye over his garden. It is rare that he gets to spend time to look after his plants, to make sure that they were up to the standards he set. He gently mists the plants near him, inspecting each and every flower carefully and - ah.

"There you are," he says, setting the mister on the ground and reaching in to grasp the unfortunate leaf. "Think you could get away with letting insects chew on you? Feeling nice, are we?" He maneuvers the shears into place, a silver guillotine poised to fall. "Too bad."

_Snip_.

The offending leaf is snipped off and Crowley squints at the plant, daring it to have more defects. After ascertaining the absence of flaws, he returns to prowl among the rest of his plants, on the lookout for more evidence of misbehavior.

His cell rings in his pocket. The shears are set down and he hurriedly presses the device to his ears. "Crowley speaking."

"Nice to know you haven't changed your number," the person on the line says drily. Crowley freezes, a tableau among his plants.

"Dagon," he says into the silence. "It's been ages. Lovely to hear your dulcet tones again."

His mind is racing - Dagon had been his superior, and on occasion they had been on cordial terms. After his defection, he had doubted that the other man would contact him ever again. Until now.

"Around a year now, isn't it?" Dagon is saying. "This isn't a social call, Crowley. We're coming for you."

The breath is knocked out of him, like someone had punched him hard in his stomach. "What?"

"Nine Circles is coming for you," Dagon says, calm and unruffled. "That Eden bastard you eloped with finally pissed off enough people." Crowley splutters at the description - he did not elope with Aziraphale, fucking hell. "They're sending Hastur and Ligur after you. Have fun."

Crowley drops the shears and mister, leaving his balcony garden and retreating inside.

"Why are you telling me this," he asks wildly, bolting for his office. He had worked with those two before - they were the gangster thugs mothers didn't want their children to get near to. "You could have just let them at me."

"I could," Dagon agrees, "but I thought you could use a fair warning." Mafia politics, gotta love them. He briefly wonders what got Hastur and Ligur in Dagon’s crosshairs. "They're going to discorporate you."

He slams the office door shut behind him, strides across the room to the cupboard, and throws it open. A plastic bucket and a small tank of clear liquid sits on the lowest shelf.

"They can try," he tells the phone, grim.

He hangs up on Dagon and sets to work with utmost care. Though the liquid may seem harmless, he knows better - any and all transfer of liquid are handled in small amounts and with steady hands. With the bucket full and positioned, he settles onto the chair and waits.

But first, a call.

He dials Aziraphale. His hands are trembling now that he knows that there is nothing left but to wait, nothing but the nauseating passage of time as Hastur and Ligur draws ever closer. He hopes that Aziraphale picks up, that he has a plan that is better than the one Crowley has chosen, that he hasn’t been discorporated by Nine Circles either. He hopes that Aziraphale is alive.

The dial tone switches to the message. Crowley breathes out shakily.

"Angel," he says when prompted, even though its recipient may never hear the message. "They're coming for me. Word is you pissed off enough people with our little operation, but we knew it was coming. I could run - but Hastur and Ligur'll chase me down like the hounds they are. I'm making a stand." He pauses, nervousness clawing up his throat. "If I'm... I need you to know."

He imagines himself saying _I love you_. For one terrifying moment, he thinks that he did.

"You can have my Bentley," he says instead, and cuts the call. His fingers curl around the hard plastic and he breathes in, out.

He waits.

* * *

He waits long enough to think that Dagon was just scaring him for the heck of it. The phone case has left its imprint on his palm, and he's getting restless.

Then the lock turns.

Crowley sucks in a breath. It would be so easy to hide, but then all his efforts would have been for nothing. They would find him anyway. He strains his ears, trying to listen for any movements.

"His security is shit," Ligur suddenly comments, his voice amplified in the flat. "Where the fuck is his security alarm?"

"No idea. He’s always been a cocky bastard," comes Hastur's guttural voice. "He'll get what's coming. Let's wait - he's bound to come back soon."

The unoiled hinge of the bedroom door whines through the silence. Crowley flinches but remains in the chair. He has to be where he is for this to work. He hears them retreating into the bedroom, and he tries not to hyperventilate while he counts slowly to ten.

"In here, gentlemen," he calls out. He hears the low curse from Hastur, and the footfalls grow faster and louder. Ligur bursts into the room...

... and a bucket of perchloric acid upends itself, drenching Ligur in its contents.

Ligur, the poor bastard, screams as the acid eats at his flesh, well doused as he is. Crowley watches in morbid fascination the way his skin melts into itself as Ligur topples to the floor and spasms, as his screams eventually peter out to whimpers and then, finally, nothing.

Hastur is in the doorway, staring at the twitching body that was once Ligur.

"You bastard," the thug says hoarsely.

"Takes one to know one," Crowley says without thinking before scrambling out of the way.

Hastur charges towards the desk two seconds later, his hands stretched outwards towards the space where Crowley's neck was. Crowley gingerly but quickly steps over Ligur and runs out of the room to press himself against a wall, fumbling at his gun holster. _I'm alive_ , he thinks almost out of shock.

He'd like to stay that way.

Hastur charges out of the room and Crowley shoots at him. The bullet flies over the thug's head as he ducks down and slams Crowley into the wall, knocking the gun out of his hand. They grapple down towards the floor; Hastur attempts to crush him and his throat using his huge body mass and meaty hands, and Crowley tries to not be crushed and dissuades Hastur of the notion by clipping him on his jaw, to no avail. It does, however, let him breathe.

“Are you a brick wall?” Crowley gasps, scrambling to stand up.

He notices the gun’s dull glint from where it fell under the couch before Hastur charges him again, murder written plainly across his countenance. In all honesty, Crowley had hoped that the acid would have taken out both thugs, but he was unlucky enough to be left with the more murderous of the two. If it was Ligur, perhaps he could have talked him out of killing in general. With Hastur, a goddamned miracle would be required, and he doesn’t have one.

He dodges the charging man at the last second, throwing himself to the side and watching the thug slam soundly into the glass balcony door. Taking advantage of the momentary disorientation, he darts towards the couch, intent on retrieving his gun - only to be tackled down when Hastur had obviously regained his bearings. His head slams against the wall, leaving him dazed; Hastur pins him in place, holding his throat with one hand almost tightly enough to asphyxiate him.

“You killed Ligur,” Hastur says hoarsely.

“You two tried to kill me,” Crowley points out, choking when Hastur’s grip tightens. His mouth is going to be the death of him, he realises belatedly.

“You fucking killed Ligur. You flash bastard," and oh god, this isn’t the right time for him to face a potentially unstable Hastur. He had always thought that the two were more of unwilling business partners that only got along because of the similarities in their personalities, the whole birds-of-a-feather-flock-together shebang.

Hastur’s shoulders shake as he leans over, his hand crushing Crowley’s esophagus into his windpipe.

“I’m going to discorporate you,” he promises darkly, “and Ligur’ll do the same to you on the other side. He’d want revenge."

Crowley begins to see dark spots in his vision - fleetingly, he thinks of Aziraphale and the soft smile he has when he reads a book. There are times when he thinks that the man should have never been in the organized crime business.

Would Aziraphale avenge him?

At that very moment, his cell phone rings.

The ringtone sounds shrill in the room. Hastur loosens his grip, taken by surprise, and air comes rushing into Crowley’s lungs. He curls into himself and pushes Hastur over, using the momentum to roll inelegantly over the man and towards the kitchen counter, where the gun waits. Gun retrieved, he scrambles up by using the counter as a support and draws the safety back with an audible click, aiming at Hastur.

Hastur freezes, not too blinded by rage to charge at Crowley again. Had he done so, there would be a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Crowley pants, drawing in ragged breaths as if to compensate for the air Hastur had denied him earlier.

The cell phone rings once more before falling silent. He can look at it later.

“Who sent you,” he demands instead. Dagon had warned him because Crowley saved his hide once upon a very long time - and if Dagon truly wanted him dead, he would have come himself. Some jobs are personal, no matter how professional the business is becoming. “And why?"

Hastur glowers at him. Crowley aims the gun down to the man’s foot and shoots, once. The man yelps like a wounded animal as the bullet penetrates his foot.

“I don’t have time for your posturing,” he says tersely over Hastur’s curses. “Who the fuck sent you?"

“Who the fuck else,” Hastur snarls through his pain. “I got the order from Nine Circles, and they don’t tell us why - though maybe it’s because you’re a fucking traitor.” He is clutching at his wound, rocking back and forth as blood seeps through his fingers and drips onto the floor. “Abandoning us for a fucking faggot."

“Why now?” Crowley persists, even if he would like to shoot Hastur’s brains out at that very moment. It is clear that Hastur isn’t getting out alive, though Crowley had expected more tears. Perhaps the man hasn’t realized it yet.

“Why the fuck not? Did you want to finish your honeymoon first?” Hastur’s voice turns mocking. He really has balls, Crowley thinks absently, slightly impressed. “Maybe adopt a kid?"

“How about you tell me something useful,” Crowley interrupts the tirade, reaffirming his aim, “so that I won’t blow your brains out?” He smiles, cold as ice. “You can start now."

“How about no,” someone else suggests. Before Crowley can turn around, something hard clips him on the back of his head and he sees stars as he pitches forward, face-first onto the floor. In front of him, he can hear Hastur berating the other person for being late. Someone kicks the gun away from his hand. Somewhere distant, a phone rings.

There is more conversation, more snarling and more unruffled replies from the person. Crowley attempts to get up, to do something before they kill him, but his head is ringing and his body is unresponsive. He flexes the fingers in his right hand, the only muscles that seem to be responding to his brain’s commands.

Someone steps onto them, hard polished leather on tender flesh digits, and pain lances up his arm.

“Today may be your lucky day, Mr. Crowley,” someone says pleasantly. “Or unlucky. We can have some fun later.” Whoever it is grinds his foot down onto Crowley’s hand and he chokes on a cry that is stuck in his throat. “Sleep tight."

Something hard swings down again, and the world fades to black.


End file.
